He could never love me.

It's as simple as that.

All those days and nights spent together, the laughter, the tears, the companionship. All those talks, all those confessionals and personal moments, the arguments and discussions. All those memories and dreams. All those things.

They don't change anything.

He could never love me.

I'm an idiot for asking him here.

We're drinking milkshakes across the table from one another, staring in awkward silence like cubs on their first ever date, full of nerves and inexperience. My tail is curled around a chair leg in some instinctual response to my moronic anxiety. I'm twenty-two and I look like a damn twelve year old.

Anyway, how can I be anxious when I already know what's going to happen?

He takes a long sip of his chocolate and PB shake, his slim spotted tail lazily flopping from side to side behind him. His eyes wander around the busy seating area before settling on me.

There's some old saying about how cats and dogs don't get along, I suppose that's long been proven bullshit, but here I am acting as another data point: a corgi crushing on a jaguar, rendered speechless by his presence. Today it's just me and him and I'm acting like a flustered preteen meeting their favorite pop star.

“Cool place,” he remarks, unfazed.

It's not.

It's a fucking milkshake joint for school kids and tired parents looking for a way to shut up their wailing children.

My ears attempt to flatten but I consciously fight to keep them upright. I'm a total idiot for bringing him here. Did I think this place would provide a romantic milieu?

I know why I chose it though: to give myself an easy out, to let myself play chicken and pretend this is something that it clearly isn't.

We've spent time together alone before, of course we have, but I've never out-of-the-blue suggested the two of us go somewhere - not without others or without there being a specific and clear reason for it - until now.

“Yeah,” I say.

Fucking moron.

I sip at the vanilla shake that I panic-ordered as I realized I was paying more attention to the Jaguar's breathing patterns than the actual menu.

He looks around. Our silence quickly stretches to an uncomfortable length and my curled tail remains still as a fucking lamppost while my heart beats like a jackhammer.

“So, uh, do you come here often?” He asks sounding half awkward, half entirely out of place.

“No,” I respond flatly and too quickly. “I mean, I've been a couple times.” I pause and struggle to find meaningful words. I fail but, stupidly, speak anyway. “Pretty good shakes.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, a genuine sense of warmth to his monosyllabic response.

I don't say anything immediately so we both just sip at our drinks, not speaking.

I feel like I'm going to suffocate on the tension or simply drop dead out of either embarrassment or my own pure inadequacy.

He could never love me.

I want to go home and cry into a pillow.

I should bail out before its too late. At this point it will be awkward whatever I do, but I can make some sort of excuse and pretend this was all nothing.

“So, how come you asked me here anyway?” His gaze focuses in on me and mine on him. Our eyes lock so directly I feel instantly uncomfortable. Another part of me melts and falls for him all over again.

He's so calm, so cool, so sexy.

I guess this is it.

I should either go for it or give up and back down.

I'm frozen in place, I can't even open my muzzle. He speaks my name as a question. I nod.

“I said: how come you asked me here anyway?” His words are somehow spoken casually - interested but unconcerned - as though any of this were normal. His eyes remain fixated on mine.

Is it my imagination or is the his gaze more fierce and focused than usual?

Did I see the corners of his mouth flicker through a frown?

Is he being overly polite and accommodating?

“Oh, yeah,” I say to start, with no idea how to continue. “Well it only opened recently and we hadn't been here together so...”

I trail off into nothing, hating myself immediately as the obfuscating words tumble out of my muzzle.

“Sure, but, uh, why just invite me? Without the others, I mean.”

Is it my imagination or is he the one struggling to maintain eye contact?

Did he really sound a little nervous?

Is he hoping to hear a specific answer?

I take a moment to think. I don't know what the hell I'm going to say.

I'm projecting. I must be. I'm taking my desires and laying them over his reality, seeing what I want to see, playing make-believe with his emotions.

He could never love me.

If I say the things I want to say, bare my heart and offer myself up to him I will destroy us. He'll reject me and, worse, he'll never be able to see me the same way again. We'll lose our friendship. It would crush me.

I look down into the remaining white slosh of my milkshake, seeking answers and finding none.

I close my eyes and keep drinking. Under the familiar dark of my eyelids I find a new world.

He's on top of me. His paws all over me. His hot breath in my ears. His teeth nibbling at my neck.

He's so gentle, yet firm. His every movement titillates and satisfies me. I can't get enough of him.

I open my eyes to find the old world exactly as it was before.

Catching his gaze again I shrug.

“We're close, right? I guess I thought it might be nice if it were just us,” I say, hearing myself back further away from the truth and losing more and more respect for myself with each successively spoken word.

“Sure.” He ejects his response in a monotone. He turns suddenly and flicks his rounded ears, whether due to impulse or out of annoyance I can't tell. The conversation dies down for a minute as we drain our drinks and I curse myself for ever inviting him here in the first place. He eventually finds another question. “What were your plans for after this anyway?” He indicates the general area with two swirling, outstretched index fingers as he utters the word 'this'.

The truth is I didn't think that far ahead. All I thought about was opening up and how he might react. If he reacted negatively, well, what came next wouldn't matter. If he reacted positively, well, that would be fucking amazing.

I laugh at myself. To me the sound seems awkward as hell. He shoots me a confused look. I do my best to recover.

“You know what? I didn't think it through that far. I really should sleep more, its messing with my mind,” I shake my head in self-deprecating humor as an attempt to reinforce my weak lie. I could come up with an idea for something to do and offer it up, but it would be pointless.

He could never love me.

Being here with him today, right now, is total agony.

Every second is a miniature torture of withheld desires and impossible cravings destined to be left unfulfilled.

I could cry right now.

Instead I sit and hope against hope that he will allow me an easy escape from this prison of my own creation.

He doesn't.

“Is that right?” He asks.

I pause, then stammer.

“Ye- Yes, that's right.”

“That shirt suits you.”

A total non-sequitur.

I look down and feel a hotness burning at my cheeks. I feel instantly overdressed. A smart lilac shirt, black ironed pants, polished dress shoes. An outfit suitable for a date at some restaurant deserving of reservations. Not a whatever-the-fuck-this-is at some damn milkshake place that is, more likely than not, part of a chain. Good thing I at least passed on a fucking tie.

What the hell is my problem? I'm a dumb delusional dog and that's all I've ever been.

He could never love me.

My composure begins to disintegrate.

“Thanks.” I laugh again, my awkwardness on full display.

He takes a final sip of his drink and sets it down.

He's staring at me. This time his gaze is totally unwavering. He's thinking about something.

“Why did you invite me here, really?”

It takes a second for his words to sink in.

When they do the rest of the world seems to slow to a crawl until the only things left in the universe that hold any relevance or momentum are me and him.

“What?”

It's all I can manage to say. I sound like a lost pup, scared and confused.

“You aren't the type to ask somebody out alone without a damn good reason, or at the very least a plan. And the way you're dressed, the way you've been acting... It's-” He seems to want to go on, but he catches himself. His resolve collapses suddenly, his focus falling toward the table. He shakes his head.

The rest of the world returns to normal.

I don't know what to say or do.

What does he want to hear?

What does he think this is?

I...

He could never love me.

If I tell the truth I'll lose him.

“It's... I don't know.” Pathetic response. Pathetic corgi. Pathetic everything.

“You don't know?” He asks quietly.

What the hell do I say?

“This was a mistake. I was tired and impulsive and... I'm sorry for all of it.” His eyes flick back up and the sight of his tightly clenched muzzle and tilted ears gives me pause. In spite of the hesitation I keep telling my story, digging my own damn grave. “I was just being illogical, I guess. I wanted to see you and for some reason I thought getting one milkshake was enough to fill a day.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in and out, nods slowly, then shrugs. His eyes open again; his expression is unreadable.

“Sure. So, what now?”

“I guess we get going,” I say. Inside I scream, pain-wracked, as I continue to consciously suppress any outward expression my emotions. It hurts, it fucking hurts me to do this but...

He could never love me.

And this is the only way to keep him as a friend.

“Right now?”

“Well we've had our drinks so... yeah.”

“Sure. Okay.” He sounds emotionless, empty. Or maybe that's another projection.

“See you later then,” I say with a little wave.

“See you later,” he says without one. I make a motion to move and he adds: “Don't wait up for me. I'm gonna make a couple calls before leaving.”

He pulls out his phone.

Part of me wants to yell a proclamation of love at the top of my lungs.

Part of me wants to break down into tears right here and now.

Part of me wants to run out of the building and all the way home.

Part of me wants to grab him and kiss him and hope.

But it's all fantasy.

He could never love me.

I get up and leave.

***

The corgi pushes back his chair and walks out without another word.

The afterimage of his nerve stricken face, his white and brown fur and his smart and well-suited, if slightly formal, attire is all burned into my retina. Even as the door of the establishment swings shut behind his languidly swaying tail I can't get the impression of him out of my mind; it's as though he's still sat there across from me.

I take a moment to myself then stand up and move to the restroom. I sit in an empty stall, bury my face in my paws and cry.

I thought he loved me.

I thought that's what this was all about.

I thought all my hopes and dreams were about to come true like I was living in a fairytale.

I was a fucking fool.

I just sat there, awkward as hell, asking weird, invasive questions, pushing him away to the point that he excused himself and left as soon as he could.

I should have said something.

I should have admitted how I felt and got all this over and fucking done with. That, or I should have kept my stupid muzzle shut and not fucked with a good thing.

I love him.

God, I'm so stupid.

How did I ever think otherwise?

He could never love me.